The Innkeeper's Question
by Entropy-Fan
Summary: This is set in Season 2, episode 2 of Sherlock: "The Hounds of Baskerville". A bit fluffy, a bit serious, but overall lots of fun.
1. Chapter 1

"_Is yours a snorer?" asked the shorter of the gay innkeepers, seeming genuinely interested in the sleeping habits of the curious blond man and his gangly companion._  
"_D'you have any crisps?" John replied quickly, avoiding the question._

It wasn't so much that he didn't want to answer the question; it was more like he couldn't.

Later that evening, as he lay next to Sherlock, wiping the rapidly drying semen from both their bodies, he remembered the innkeeper's question.  
Turning to Sherlock, he asked, "Why haven't we ever slept together?"

In the dark, he could feel Sherlock stiffen, and not in the good way.  
A second passed between them. And then another.

"Sherlock!" Said John, rising up onto his elbows.  
He heard an exasperated sigh, followed by the sound of sheets rubbing against flesh as Sherlock turned to face him.  
"What."  
"I asked why we've never slept together."  
"What do you call what we just did?"  
"Not _that_," John said, turning slightly red," I mean, why do we...you know..."  
"Have intercourse."  
"Right. Why do we do that nearly every night and then go to sleep in separate beds?"  
"Because it just happens that way?" Sherlock offered, already drifting off to sleep.

John shook him awake.  
"No, Sherlock, it doesn't just 'happen that way'. How it happens is you kicking me out every night afterwards like I'm a fifty p whore!"  
"John, please."  
"What's so bad about wanting to sleep next to you! We already do everything else together, why not that?!"  
"You're being irrational."  
Hurt, John jumped out of bed and began to put on his clothes.  
"Where're you going?" Sherlock asked.  
"Back to London, I'm sick of this," John responded, electing to leave behind his cum-soaked t-shirt.  
"What, now?" Sherlock sat up, watching his partner stomp around the room.  
"Yes, now! You-you just don't care about anyone else, do you?"  
"John, stop it.  
"DON'T..." began John, then he dropped his voice so as not to alert the other residents, "Don't you dare tell me what to do, you...you machine."

The last word carried so much venom in it, that Sherlock felt himself shocked into silence for the first time in his life.

He watched silently as John stormed out of the room and into the darkness outside.


	2. Chapter 2

The wind off the moor swept past the small-statured man, neary lifting him off his feet.  
John flipped up his collar against the wind, then, realizing he was mirroring one of his partner's obnoxious moves, he flipped it down again.

He knew there was no way he'd be able to get to London that night; he knew he was being irrational; he just wanted to get away from Sherlock.

Sometimes it just got too much to handle, and being around him didn't fill John with as many warm feelings as before, just resentment and frustration.  
He knew that after his little performance, they were probably through as sexual partners. He wondered if this meant they wouldn't be able to work together anymore.

He wasn't sure what he'd miss more: being in the presence of a genius mind and sometimes even contributing to the public good with said genius, or snuggling next to someone he genuinely cared about each night and having wildly amazing sex.  
He felt a tear run down his cheek but he blamed that on the bitter wind.

He remembered the first time they'd had sex.

He had only just managed to convince Sherlock to have some dinner with him. He was used to sneaking glances and the other man's heart-shaped lips as he sucked in a single noodle or chewed thoughtfully on a sandwich, but this time was different. This time, Sherlock was looking back at him.  
John tried to avoid his gaze, but that was difficult to accomplish especially because he wanted nothing more than to imagine how those lips would feel brushing up against his skin.  
When he couldn't stand the tension in the air for one more second, John spoke up.  
"Good food."  
"Hmm," said Sherlock, still staring intensely at him, "oh yes. Quite good."  
"It was very nice of Mrs. Hudson to order for us."  
"Indeed."  
The silence resumed.  
"John, is there something you want to talk about?" Sherlock asked.  
John felt himself begin to panic. Sherlock never wanted to talk. Not about anything normal, anyway. It was always about a case and they hadn't had one in weeks so that couldn't be it.  
"Um, no, I don't think so," John replied, finally finding the will to avert his gaze for more than a minute.  
"Hmm."  
"Well, yes actually," Said John, not exactly sure of what he was going to say next. "I suppose I never really thanked you for taking me on that first case."  
"Ah."  
"It's been fun."  
"Fun?"  
"Yes, Sherlock, you do understand fun, don't you?"  
Sherlock chuckled and his eyes seemed to glimmer.  
"You're right, it has been...fun."  
"Anything _you_ want to talk about?" Asked John.

Sherlock dropped his cutlery and the sound of the resulting clatter filled the room.  
"I think we ought not beat about the bush for a second longer."  
"What do you mean?" John felt his heart begin to race.  
"I've noticed you looking at me."  
"What do you mean 'looking at you'? We work together, that's perfectly normal."  
"Is it? Because I could swear sometimes it's like you're projecting something...electric."  
Sherlock slowly, and in a rather feline manner, stuck out the tip of his tongue and ran it seductively along the shape of his mouth, watching John the entire time.  
Suddenly it clicked. The bastard knew the entire time. He was playing John like a violin and to make matters worse, John could feel it working.  
At least, if the tent in his pants was any indication.  
"You dick," whispered John.  
"Seems to me like you've been having some rather unusual thoughts lately. Perhaps concerning a certain consulting detective."  
Sherlock stood up and walked around the table, leaning against the fridge, lazily within reach of his squirming companion.  
"Well, go on, then," he continued, "I'm not going to stop you."  
John felt himself almost magnetically drawn towards the taller man. He trailed his hands underneath Sherlock's soft silk shirt and onto the toned body beneath. Sherlock leaned down and kissed John with an unprecedented amount of force.  
Soon they were reduced to a ball of limbs and frustrated grunts as each one tried to gain control of the action without pulling away from the passionate kiss.  
With a devilish chuckle, Sherlock pinned John against the fridge and began to trail kisses down his jawline, pressing his erection into the shorter man's abdomen.

It occurred to John that there was probably a medley of body parts freezing just on the other side of the door. He shuddered.  
"Can we move this somewhere else?" he asked.  
"My pleasure," Sherlock responded and walked slowly towards the bedroom, shedding clothes as he walked. When he reached the door, he gave his waist a little wiggle and John felt a small explosion of pleasure behind his eyes.  
"Manipulative son of a bitch," said John, grinning from ear to ear as he followed him into the bedroom.

And now, it was too late and they'd never have a moment like that again.  
Another tear ran down John's face as he looked around for a place to seek shelter until morning.


	3. Chapter 3

John sat shivering beneath a rocky ledge, listening to the wind whistling by and wishing he was curled up safe and warm next to the only man he'd ever let himself love.  
He tried to make himself comfortable as he listened.

Sleep had just begun to overpower him when he noticed that the whistling in the wind had changed. It sounded almost familiar.  
He sat up and stuck his head out into the dark, listening attentively. At first there was nothing but the wind, and then he heard it again!  
It was coming from afar and it sounded like...no, it couldn't be.

He crawled out from underneath the ledge and stood up fully.  
He could almost make out a figure bracing the wind, moving in his direction.

"John! Are you here, John? Can you hear me?"  
It was Sherlock!

John was so relieved to see him that he almost ran to hug him. Then he remembered that he was upset with the so-called "consulting detective" and he thought better of it.  
He rested his back against the rocks. He knew Sherlock would find him sooner or later, but he didn't intend to make it easy.

"If you can hear me, John, I'm sorry!"  
He closed his eyes and savored the moment. He had only ever seen Sherlock apologize once before and when the shock wore off, it was a rather pleasant feeling watching the man admit he was wrong.

"I do want to be with you, John! I just can't let my feeling for you get in the way of my work.  
I know it sounds like I'm making excuses because I'm always working, but I try, John! In my own  
way, I do try. It's just difficult for me and I need you to understand that. I need...I need you, John!  
And I know you can hear me. I can see your leg peeking out behind that rock. Come out, John!"

John looked down.  
Indeed, his right leg was peeking out further than the rest of his body.  
"Damn my leg!" he called out.

Sherlock laughed.

John walked out from behind the rock and was immediately engulfed in a hug.

"Don't go back to London," Sherlock whispered.  
"I wasn't planning on it," John chocked out, inhaling deeply into the taller man's neck.  
After a brief silence, Sherlock replied, "I know."

They laughed together and separated.

Sherlock looked into his partner's eyes.

"Let's go back to bed; we have a big day tomorrow."  
He took John's hand and led him back in the direction of the lodge, talking nonstop about his theory of the mysterious hound.

They didn't do a lot of sleeping back at the inn, but when they were finally exhausted enough to collapse,  
they fell asleep curled up in each other's arms.

**Epilogue**  
The next morning, when Sherlock and John went to grab a bit of breakfast,  
John leaned over to the innkeeper and said conspiratorially, "To answer your question, no. He's a very light sleeper it turns out."


End file.
